


Red Ships and Green Ships

by airspaniel



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Male Character, First Kiss, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8876200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: “So what are we drinking to?” he asks, and March frowns, looks down at his empty hands, and Healy’s almost tempted to give him the drink back.
  “Fuck, man…” March says, too quiet, too serious. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep deliberate breath. He exhales with fresh determination. “To new beginnings, how about that?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/gifts).



> This fic makes the totally logical assumption that Healy moved into the next rental house with March and Holly after the events of the film, and also it turns out I have A LOT of feelings about the ensuing domestic nonsense, but it all starts here. 
> 
> The title is an oblique Due South reference, thank you kindly for noticing. Thanks to [redacted] for the sanity check!
> 
> @inlovewithnight, I hope you like it! Happy Yuletide!

March is drunk.

It’s not like that’s an unusual occurrence, but it’s still been a while since Healy walked into the living room and saw the man sprawled on the floor, shoulders propped up against the sofa, barely conscious enough to lift the glass of whiskey to his lips. The liquor sloshes over the rim of the glass, splashing onto the carpet of the rental, and Healy goes to the kitchen to get a towel first, before bending down on creaky knees to sop the booze out of the shag.

March rolls his head over to look at him with glassy eyes that go warm and happy as he recognizes him. “Hey…” March slurs fondly. “Hey, Healy.”

Healy keeps his eyes on his work and doesn’t think about how his face feels kinda hot. “You should get to bed,” he says.

“Nah… nah, ‘s early,” says March, and by a certain definition he’s right - it’s just gone two AM.

“Early, late, it’s all relative,” Healy says, and March smashes his own nose with his index finger like Healy’s answered exactly right.

“Thass exactly right!” he says, and Healy smiles despite himself, reaches out to take the half-empty glass away. March dodges, raises the glass high up over his head to keep it away, and if he drips scotch on his head in the effort, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So I say it’s early,” March decides. “And I say you should have a drink with me.”

Healy twists around to sit with his back against the couch, next to March, close enough that he’s aware of the warmth of March’s body all down his left side, even though they aren’t touching. “Well, how about you share that one with me? I’d hate to have to get up and go all the way to the bar.”

March snorts a laugh. “Lazy,” he says, but he hands the glass over. Healy gamely takes a sip and sets it on his other side, just out of March’s sight.

“So what are we drinking to?” he asks, and March frowns, looks down at his empty hands, and Healy’s almost tempted to give him the drink back.

“Fuck, man…” March says, too quiet, too serious. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep deliberate breath. He exhales with fresh determination. “To new beginnings, how about that?”

Healy lifts the glass in a toast. “Sounds good,” he says, but March isn’t done.

“To partnerships!” March says, sitting up straight, and Healy keeps the glass up. “To being…” He trails off, suddenly sad, or unsure, or something complicated that Healy doesn’t recognize right away.

“To being?” he prompts.

March smiles at him like he’s the smartest man in the world, and Healy really likes that smile.

“Yeah. To being.”

Healy takes a drink, the scotch burning his throat in the best way. “Amen to that, pal.”

They sit in silence for a while, March slapping his fingers against Healy’s side every so often to make him pass the glass, the damp of the carpet soaking into Healy’s pants where the towel didn’t get everything. It’s nice. Comfortable. It makes Healy feel a little uneasy. After all, he doesn’t actually belong here; he’s still just a guest.

“Hey,” March says, like he’s psychic, like he could hear what Healy was thinking. He tilts sideways, sliding against the sofa, until his face is mashed against Healy’s arm. Healy shifts so the position is more comfortable and doesn’t even consider pushing him away.

“Hey,” March repeats. “Hey, Healy. Tell me a story?”

Healy huffs like he’s annoyed, but March doesn’t buy it any more than he does himself. Trouble is, he’s running out of stories. Outside of one lucky day in a diner and a dozen fights he’s not sure he was on the right side of, Healy doesn’t have that much to say about himself.

He nudges March’s cheek with his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell _me_ a story for a change?”

It’s silent for so long he thinks that March must’ve fallen asleep, but when he looks over the man’s eyes are open, and he’s staring at the carpet like it might open up and swallow him whole. Like he wants it to, maybe.

“My wife is dead because of me,” he says at last, quiet and terrible. “But that’s not the worst thing I ever did to her.”

Healy lifts his arm and wraps it around March’s shoulders, because _jesus christ…_ “Hey, no, c’mon…”

March doesn’t shrug it off, but he doesn’t stop talking. “No, I did. I was awful to her. She loved me once, she gave me the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I fucked her over. Again and again.” He trails off, and Healy just sits there with his arm around him, not sure what to say.

“I didn’t love them,” March says, staring at the floor. “None of them. The women, the men… I just… it feels so good to be wanted, y’know?”

Healy doesn’t know. Or he doesn’t know if he knows. His brain is kind of stuttering on _the men…_

“But I fucked up,” March continues, turning his face into Healy’s shoulder like he’s hiding. “I keep fucking up. I _am_ a fuckup.”

“Hey,” Healy says, a little sharp. “You’re not a fuckup, Hol.”

Unexpectedly, March laughs. “Hol is what we call Holly.”

Healy rolls his eyes and ignores the flipping feeling in his stomach. “Sorry, _Holland._ ”

March burrows in closer, one hand curled against Healy’s chest. “You never call me that,” he murmurs. “I like it, though.”

“Okay, good.”

"What's your name?" March asks, and Healy has to laugh. March knows, of course he does, he put it on _posters_ for fuck's sake, but Healy doesn't quite have it in him to make fun. Not right now.

"It's Jackson," he says, and he can feel March smile against his throat.

"Jackson," March says, like it's his favorite word, and Healy's got nothing to say to that.

“I am a fuckup,” March repeats, after a while. “I’m fucking up right now.”

Healy pulls back to look at him and only then realizes that he had been resting his cheek against the top of March’s head. It’s innocent, it doesn’t matter.

Then March leans forward and presses their lips together.

It’s awkward and a little sloppy, pure drunken affection, and Healy isn’t thinking anymore as he opens his mouth; lets his tongue swipe over March’s lips. The kiss tastes like alcohol and stale breath and Healy never wants it to end.

“See?” March whispers, pulling back, dropping his head against Healy’s shoulder. “I’m fucking up right now. Now you won’t wanna work with me anymore.”

“What?” Healy asks, catching up. “Don’t be an idiot, March, of course I want to work with you. We’re partners, right?”

“Partners,” says March, soft and sleepy. “I like that.”

“Good,” says Healy, decisive. Taking control of the situation. “I like it, too.”

March hums against his neck. “Like it when you call me Holland.”

Healy nods in agreement. “Me too.”

They sit there for what feels like a long time while Healy tries to come up with something to say. Everything he can think of is either too much or not enough, and they’re probably both too drunk for what he wants to say, which is _I don’t want to move out, please let me stay, be_ my _fuckup…_

“Holland,” he says, instead of any of that, and his only response is a loud snore right in his ear. March has passed out, cold.

Healy exhales, relief or disappointment or something, and pulls March into his arms, picks him up and carries him down the hallway to the master bedroom. He sets him down on the bed, tugs off his shoes and his belt, and doesn’t think too much about anything while he does it; he just wants to make March as comfortable as possible. He turns him over on his side and pulls the duvet up to his shoulders before turning the lights off and leaving the room.

March probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow, anyway.


End file.
